⌈Exeunt Surrey, Erasmus, and attendants⌉
How now, Master Morris?
MORRIS I am a suitor to your lordship in behalf of a servant of mine.
MORE
The fellow with long hair, good Master Morris?
Come to me three years hence, and then I’ll hear you.
MORRIS I understand your honour; but the foolish knave has submitted himself to the mercy of a barber, and is without, ready to make a new vow before your lordship hereafter to live civil.
MORE
Nay then, let’s talk with him; pray call him in.
Enter Falkner and Officers
FALKNER Bless your honour: a new man, my lord.
MORE Why sure this’ not he.
FALKNER An your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my head. I am he, in faith, my lord, I am ipse.
MORE
Why, now thy face is like an honest man’s.
Thou hast played well at this new-cut and won.
FALKNER No, my lord, lost all that ever God sent me.
MORE God sent thee into the world as thou art now, with a short hair. How quickly are three years run out in Newgatel
FALKNER I think so, my lord, for there was but a hair’s length between my going thither and so long time.
MORE
Because I see some grace in thee, go free.—
Discharge him, fellows. ⌈Exeunt Officers⌉
Farewell, Master Morris.
Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit:
Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit. ⌈exit⌉
MORRIS Did not I tell thee always of these locks?
FALKNER An the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside should not pick them open. ’Sheart, if my hair stand not on end when I look for my face in a glass, I am a potecat.—Here’s a lousy jest.—But if I notch not that rogue Tom Barber that makes me look thus like a Brownist, hang me. I’ll be worse to the nittical knave than ten tooth-drawings. Here’s a head with a pox!
[Addition IV (playhouse scribe; attributed to Dekker)]
[Addition IV (Dekker)]
MORRIS What ail’st thou? Art thou mad now?
FALKNER Mad now? Nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man—what can? I am deposed: my crown is taken from me. More had been better a’ scoured Moorditch than a’ notched me thus. Does he begin sheep-shearing with Jack Falkner?
MORRIS Nay, an you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.
FALKNER Why, farewell, frost! I’ll go hang myself out for the—poll-head. Make a Sar’cen of Jack?
MORRIS
Thou desperate knave, for that I see the devil
Wholly gets hold of thee—
FALKNER The devil’s a damned rascal.
MORRIS
I charge thee wait on me no more; no more
Call me thy master.
FALKNER Why then, a word, Master Morris.
MORRIS I’ll hear no words, sir, fare you well.
FALKNER ’Sblood, farewelll
MORRIS Why dost thou follow me?
FALKNER Because I’m an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then cast me off? Must I condole? Have the Fates played the fools? (Weeps) Am I their cut? Now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag and baggage?
MORRIS You coxcomb!
FALKNER Nay, you ha’ poached me, you ha’ given me a hire, it’s here, here.
MORRIS
Away, you kind ass. Come, sir, dry your eyes.
Keep your old place, and mend these fooleries.
FALKNER I care not to be turned off, an ’twere a ladder, so it be in my humour or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies spin me a fine thread, Falkner flies another pitch. And to avoid the headache, hereafter before I’ll be a hairmonger I’ll be a whoremonger.
Exeunt
[Addition IV (Dekker)]
[Addition V (playhouse scribe)]
Sc. 9 Enter a Messenger to More. Messenger. T. Goodal
MESSENGER
My honourable lord, the Mayor of London
Accompanied with his lady and her train
Are coming hither, and are hard at hand
To feast with you. A sergeant’s come before
To tell your lordship of their near approach.
⌈Exit Messenger⌉
MORE
Why, this is cheerful news. Friends go and come.
Reverend Erasmus, whose delicious words
Express the very soul and life of wit,
Newly took sad leave of me, with tears
Troubled the silver channel of the Thames,
Which, glad of such a burden, proudly swelled
And on her bosom bore him toward the sea.
He’s gone to Rotterdam. Peace go with him!
He left me heavy when he went from hence,
But this recomforts me. The kind Lord Mayor,
His brethren aldermen, with their fair wives
Will feast this night with us. Why, so’t should be.
More’s merry heart lives by good company.
⌈Enter Master Roper and Servingmen⌉
Good gentlemen, be careful; give great charge
Our diet be made dainty for the taste.
For, of all people that the earth affords,
The Londoners fare richest at their boards.
[Addition V (playhouse scribe)]
[Original Text (Munday)]
Come, my good fellows, stir, be diligent.
Sloth is an idle fellow. Leave him now.
The time requires your expeditious service.
Place me here stools to set the ladies on.
⌈Servingmen set stools⌉
Son Roper, you have given order for the banquet?
ROPER
I have, my lord, and everything is ready.
Enter Lady More
MORE
O welcome, wife. Give you direction
How women should be placed; you know it best.
For my Lord Mayor, his brethren, and the rest,
Let me alone. Men best can order men.
LADY MORE
I warrant ye, my lord, all shall be well.
There’s one without that stays to speak with ye,
And bade me tell ye that he is a player.
MORE
A player, wife?—One of ye bid him come in.
Exit one, [a Servingman]
Nay, stir there, fellows. Fie, ye are too slow!
See that your lights be in a readiness.
The banquet shall be here.—God’s me, madam,
Leave my Lady Mayoress? Both of us from the board?
And my son Roper too? What may our guests think?
LADY MORE
My lord, they are risen, and sitting by the fire.
MORE
Why, yet go you, and keep them company.
It is not meet we should be absent both.
Exit Lady
Enter Player
Welcome, good friend. What is your will with me?
PLAYER
My lord, my fellows and myself